Rhyme and Reason (11 page)

As they walked toward where even the orchestra had abandoned their seats in an effort to meet the marquis, someone called to Miriam. Her sister excused herself before Emily could speak.

Damon laughed as he rested his shoulder against the door leading out to the balcony.

“If you can control yourself,” Emily said, “I would ask you not to use me to bait that hapless Frenchman.”

“Spoken like a true heroine coming to the rescue of the weak and simple.” Taking Emily’s champagne glass, he downed what was left in it and set the glass on a nearby table. “However, I was chuckling about your sister. She seems much taken with that frog poet.”

She turned away. “She is young.”

Damon stepped in front of her. Tipping her face toward him, he said, “Emily, youth is no excuse for being short a sheet. By the elevens, you are no more than a handful of years her senior, but you were not bamblusterated by this marquis.”

“What do you mean?” She did not dare to breathe. Could he have guessed the truth? Oh, dear God, she prayed not.

“I can tell you find him as unpalatable as I do.” His fingertip brushed her cheek. “Why are you treating me so icily when but an hour ago we spoke of friendship?”

“Can we speak of something else?”

“Of what?” His caress urged her to lower her defenses as he whispered, “Do you wish to speak of how we pledged that friendship with a friendly kiss?”

Emily could not ignore the banked embers in his eyes. That sweet flame had urged her to melt to him when he drew her into his arms.

“Emily!” Valeria hurried to them. “The marquis would dearly love to hear you read his poetry in French. Come! Do not make him wait.”

“Damon and I—we were talking about—”

“Excuse us, my lord,” Valeria said, smiling. “We must not keep the marquis waiting. You understand, don’t you?”

“Do I?” he asked, his gaze holding Emily’s.

She longed to shut her eyes, to close out the promise glowing in his eyes. With a sigh she could not silence, she said, “I am afraid you must understand.”

“Then I must.” He stepped back and bowed his head with the same derision he had shown the fake marquis. “Read that Frenchman’s poetry with all the fervor it deserves, Emily. I trust I shall hear of your success.”

“You are leaving?”

“Lady Luck beckons. As I prefer her
chanson
to any of de la Cour’s, I ask you ladies to excuse me. Thank you, Lady Fanning, for a most interesting evening.”

When he turned on his heel, the temptation to call him back teased Emily. But what could she tell him? That she delighted in his company, that she wanted his touch, that she yearned to taste the fervor she had sampled on his lips. As he wove his way through the press of Valeria’s guests, her gaze followed him, unable to resist admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the easy arrogance of his stride.

“Now that he has taken his leave,” Valeria said with a smile, “we can enjoy ourselves.”

Emily regarded her with amazement she could not conceal. “Why do you say that? You invited him to this soirée.”

“I gave no thought to the idea that he actually would attend.” She linked her arm through Emily’s. “Come and read for us. The marquis is going to be delighted with you.”

Emily looked at the door, but Damon had left. With him was gone the irreverence that had allowed her to laugh away some of her apprehension. What a muddle this was! She had created Marquis de la Cour, but she feared this fantasy had taken on a life of its own and would now consume her.

Chapter Eight

Damon tossed the cards onto the table and leaned back in his chair to glower at the parlor hearth. Playing alone was no sport. Nor was it any way to clear his mind of the thoughts that had stalked him since he left Lady Fanning’s house. Tonight should have been amusing. He had hoped to spend some time chatting with Emily Talcott about gardening and, mayhap, to persuade a few of his tie-mates to take their leave early so they might enjoy time at the club.

Instead, he had let himself be lured into playing the hero for Emily when Lichton proved to be a boor. Then he allowed his own curiosity to seduce him into kissing her. His curiosity or her intriguing eyes and the soft curves which had been so inviting in his arms? Adzooks! He would be the ruin of her reputation and his own if anyone discovered a saucy lass with a green thumb had beguiled him.

He muttered a stronger curse as he went to look out the window at the street side of the simple parlor. Dawn was touching the eastern sky, but the day was gray. Heavy clouds clung to the earth, promising a morning of rain. The perfect day to spend working in a garden.

With a yawn, he stretched. He rubbed his chin, which could use a shave. What was wrong with him? He knew what he wanted and how he intended to get it. Nothing had stayed him from that course before Emily Talcott intruded on his thoughts with every breath.

“Something amiss?”

Damon turned and smiled at Gerald Cozie, who was as thin as an anatomy. That fact was emphasized by his open waistcoat and collarless shirt. Gerald never bothered with the tenets of the
ton
, an aspect of his friend’s life Damon envied. Cozie lived in obscure gentility beyond the
on dits
of the Polite World. An altogether admirable way in Damon’s opinion, and one he wished he could emulate.

“I did not hear you come in, Gerald,” he said.

Gerald set a tray on the table by the window where the dim light glittered on his almost bald pate and the glasses perched on the very end of his nose. “You were intent on your cards. Did you win?”

Damon chuckled without humor. “When one plays oneself, it is not hard to win.”

“If it were to be bandied about the élite that you sat alone at the card table, it could be the death of your reputation, Demon Wentworth.”

“You have been reading the papers again.” Sitting on the arm of one of a pair of overstuffed chairs, he laughed. “I thought you had broken yourself of that habit which you considered unbecoming a man of science.”

“Even scientific journals pall after a while.” Gerald poured two cups of coffee and offered one to Damon. “Also, how otherwise would I keep track of my favorite ex-student?”

“Pray do not sound like a doting mother.” He sipped on the coffee, letting its strong flavor awaken every nerve.

“You have been absent from our discussions for the past pair of fortnights.”

“Business.”

“Good or bad or simply interesting?”

Damon smiled. “If you want to know, read the papers.”

“Not all your business is in the papers.”

“Thank goodness.”

Gerald’s smile faded. “So why are you here?”

Taking another drink, he asked, “Can’t I give an old friend a look-in without having an ulterior motive?”

“You always had an ulterior motive in the past.”

“True.”

Gerald sat at the table and stirred sugar into his coffee. Sipping, he said nothing. The silence grew, but without the burdening tension it would have had at his club if Damon had not answered such a blunt question.

Making himself comfortable in the old chair, Damon stared at the wall of books. He guessed Gerald had read every battered volume. The scent of leather bindings made the room the most welcoming in London and increased his longing to return to Wentworth Hall and his own book-room.

“I went to the club earlier,” Damon said quietly.

“Then you obviously left.”

He nodded. “All the talk was of Marquis de la Cour. I tired of hearing that block lauded as a master.”

“Even Shakespeare had his detractors.”

“Pray do not compare de la Cour and Shakespeare,” he said with an emoted groan.

Gerald smiled as he refilled his cup with the fragrant coffee. “Do not be elitist. Books of romantic poetry sell well.”

“True. There will always be a market for those who delight in the maudlin, I suspect.”

“Not all the marquis’s readers delight in the maudlin. I have read the Frenchman’s poetry.”

Damon groaned again. “Why did you torture yourself?”

“I was curious.” He wagged a finger. “Curiosity is a gift for those of us who wish to strengthen our minds with new ideas.”

“So what did you think?”

“You want my opinion?”

“Haven’t I always?” Damon asked as he poured more coffee into his cup. He doubted if Gerald’s thick brew had ever tasted as good as it did this morning. “I value your opinion on any topic.”

“You mean you suffer me to stick my nose into all your business, both personal and not so personal.” He stretched and plucked a book off the shelf. “I have not read de la Cour’s newest tome, but I read the previous two books. Some of this poetry is actually quite good.”

“I agree.”

Gerald raised a single, bushy eyebrow. “You agree?”

“I will deny I said that most vehemently if you repeat my words to anyone.”

“Why this façade of distaste for de la Cour? A poet who writes only of love is just what we need to heal the rift left by the war.”

“I fear you give de la Cour too much credit.”

Resting his elbow on the table, Gerald said, “Mayhap. Mayhap not. However, either way, that does not explain your call at such an early hour.”

“I needed a bit of peace and sanity.”

“So who is this incomparable who has caught your eye? Who is she?”

“She?”

Gerald chuckled. “I know you well, old fellow. You argue the triviality of French poetry simply so you can ignore what truly troubles you. As you did not beat up my quarters to enjoy a friendly brangle, I have considered the other reasons you might call.”

“Did you consider I might enjoy your company?”

“Yes, but you have always been considerate enough to visit during my waking hours.” His smile grew wide in his narrow face. “I supposed there must be an extraordinary reason for this call, and my supposition led me to consider the most inconsiderable. Damon Wentworth of demon fame has had his heart, an organ many in London have questioned the existence of, touched by a woman.”

His lips twisted. “Mayhap you should be writing silly poetry. You are developing a gift for imagining the most ludicrous things.”

“Damon, who is she?”

With a sigh, he drained his cup. He stood and poured himself yet another serving. As the steam rose to curl in front of his tired eyes, he said, “I never could bamboozle you. I have met a charming woman of rare intelligence.”

“Who?”

“By the elevens, Gerald, why are you acting like a matchmaking mother this morning?”

He smiled and crossed one leg over the other, a motion Damon knew signaled his friend intended to extract every detail from him. “Curious only.”

“Her name is Emily Talcott.”

“Charles Talcott’s daughter?” He sat straighter. “Now this is interesting.”

“How so?”

“When I was young, I often left my nurse behind and took myself down to the docks where I watched one of the Talcott ships sail for America.” His smile became sad. “I haven’t thought about that for a long, long time. I wonder if they are still sailing.”

“Talcott never mentions it. Neither has Emily.” Damon sat again. The chair’s soft upholstery urged him to remember Emily’s pliant curves against him. “Damn.”

Gerald laughed. “Take care, Damon, or someone will note that you wear a moony expression whenever the fair lass crosses your mind.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the wrong time for me to enjoy more than a flirtation.”

“When will the right time be for more?”

He shrugged. “I am not certain, but I know now is wrong. I have too many matters demanding my attention. Wentworth Hall alone could keep a dozen men so busy they have no time to think of a flirtation.”

“No man should be so busy he has no time to think of a flirtation.” Gerald pulled a pipe from a stand on the bookshelf and lit it, raising a cloud.

“Odd words from a lifelong bachelor.”

“I was too busy with my studies and research and teaching.”

“So I am to learn what from that?” Damon laughed. “I have never seen anyone happier with life than you, Gerald. You do as you please when you please without answering to anyone, save yourself.”

“A fine state for me, but not for you.” He pointed the stem of his pipe at Damon. “You need someone to assist you with the resurrection of Wentworth Hall.”

“I have Sanders to aid me.”

“I speak of a wife, not of a gardener.” His smile became an expression of contemplation. “My dear boy, I know it is none of my business, but I do not wish you to end up alone.”

“I do not wish to end up alone.” Miriam stretched her hand across the settee and gave Emily a smile. “As it is clear Graham Simpkins has no interest in me, what is wrong with me enjoying the company of a man who seems to?”

Emily counted silently to ten in French and then in English. She had not thought last evening could become worse, but she had underestimated how her poetry seemed to captivate the wrong people. The single poem she had read in French had given the fraudulent marquis a chance to seek out Miriam and engage her in conversation.

But the evening and the poetry reading were past. Now was not the time for romantic nothing sayings. This was the time for sense.

Quietly, she said, “Miriam, you know nothing about the marquis.”

“I know his heart.” Her smile brightened the room that was lost in the shadows of the cloudy day.

“How can you say that? You met the man for the first time last night.”
And, with luck, it shall be the final time you meet him
. Surely the impostor would not dare show his face among the Polite World again.

Miriam picked up the book in her lap. Opening it, she touched the page where the make-believe marquis had autographed the title page. “Emily, how can anyone read these poems and not come to know the heart behind the hand that penned them?”

“They are simply poems! Anyone could have written them.”

“Really?” She stood. “I don’t believe that. I can imagine no one, save the marquis, creating them.”

“Miriam, please, you must listen.” Emily set herself on her feet and grasped her sister’s hands. “There are some things you don’t understand.”

Miriam kissed her on the cheek. “Dear sister, I know you have been anxious about my infatuation with Mr. Simpkins. I intend to put it behind me, for now I know what it is to have admiration returned. Having tasted the sweetness of wine, why would anyone wish water?”